A Due
by Sugary Snicket
Summary: a due: meant to be played as a duet. Music, they say, is the language of love. But who could ever have expected a quarter note to fall in love with a musician? More of a short Generic Bandfic than a short Marching Band fic.


_Yes, Sugary has finally gotten around to some BandFic, what with her being in band and all._

_It was only a short time ago that my school had our winter concert. We received the standard Christmassy fare – Sleigh Ride, Themes from Charlie Brown Christmas, Themes from The Nutcracker Ballet… the usual. It was in the Nutcracker themes that I found the single song from that suite that I loved most – Arabian Dance. How excited was I, being the only oboist in the school, to have the solo in it all to myself! How excited was I to play my favorite of favorite pieces!_

_It was in this piece that I found inspiration for the story you are about to read – a strange little story of unreciprocated between an unlikely duo – a note and a musician. I hope that you enjoy this short little tale. It took a lot of time to figure out just how I wanted the concept to fit on the paper!_

_(Author's Note: Please note that the speaking character's name is pronounced "GREHG-ohr na-TOO-ray". It's very Italian-sounding, in keeping with the musical theme.)_

_----------------------------_

Why, hello there, young musician! What a fine day it is…

Oh, please don't be frightened of me! I'm only a single note. I'm not sharp in any manner of the word, nor am I flat. I'm not a sixteenth note set, so you do not have to cower in such a manner! Do you not know that music speaks? All music does, if you are willing enough to listen to its tale.

But then again, that is to be expected. You are not an oboist. The oboe is, after all, the instrument for which this sheet music was written.

Now, then – I do believe that an introduction is in order. My name is Gregor Nature, and I am a simple dotted quarter note. Specifically, I am the note G Natural on the oboe, though I'm not sure what the equivalent is on your instrument. I was written into this piece, this tune that you call "The Arabian Dance", in 1892 by the great Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky. Unsatisfied with the suite, he was! Said that he hadn't wanted to write it in the first place, said he didn't like it. Apparently, many thought otherwise, as the themes you hold now are so often performed during the Yuletide season.

Of course, that is not to say that it must. It wasn't in… oh, what was that movie with the dancing flowers and fairies? Never mind, the name escapes me at the moment.

In any case, I am lost from my rightful owner, the dear, sweet oboist who can most obviously play me. It saddens me to think that I may never see her again...

My dear, beloved oboist! Why do you not return to me? I do so miss her, her and her blessed instrument, with a voice like spun silk – bright and smooth and rich as a lady's dress! You do know her, don't you? She is the only in her class, the only left to wield the oboe and tame its darker side, the only one who has passed its finely-tuned tests and knows that it is so much more than rumor would tell…

Of course you do. She is the one who sits up front, the one who casually eyes the director and gazes so intently at the notes when she plays. You must hear how her instrument's voice cuts above the rest and, boldly, sings what it wishes. Oh, how I do miss her! Woe, woe to the sheet music and all the notes on it that is exiled from its instrument!

I remember how she held this self-same sheet – such a light, thin-fingered touch, so gentle and kindly. She looked so happy to see this sheet, so happy to see this tune, The Arabian Dance…

I of course could not hear her voice her joy. I only hear in musical notation, and human speech is most decidedly _not _musical. Not that it couldn't be – I'm sure that it could if enough effort was put into it.

But she looked happy, and when she first played it, she felt happy, and so her oboe was content and her music was happy.

It was amazing. The way she played was beautiful, so unlike that which I had ever heard before…

I fell madly in love with her from that moment on. Each day, I waited in anxious anticipation for her to open her folder and pick up this sheet with her light fingers, and as she played the themes, I waited impatiently for my theme to come, and each time she brushed her eyes over me, I shuddered in delight and sang the only note that I know – G Natural. And of course, when my time was up, I regretfully let go of the note, allowing the music to flow ever onward…

But then, disaster. She was caught unawares by the time and so quickly packed her things that my sheet was forgotten. I lay on the stand for many days, under the darkened lights of the empty bandroom, cleared out for the holiday break. The custodian knocked it over, spilling this sheet onto the floor and underneath the table and its mounds of forgotten clothing.

She never did find me. I can only assume that many years have passed, for it certainly seems so. That is, unless you know where she is? She must miss me dreadfully…

I do not know what season it is, but if it is no longer winter and you intend on handing me back to the director, may I ask one thing of you? Would you please let me see her one last time? She never did know just how much I truly, deeply loved her. To her, I was merely ink - merely a simple dotted quarter note, quivering on a raft of thin bars in a sea of white.


End file.
